


In The Refrigerator Light

by trespresh



Series: I'm Half-Doomed, You're Semi-Sweet [6]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: (But also some plot?), Accidental shmoopy-ness, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mondays suck so here's some porn for you guys, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 01:39:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5229008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trespresh/pseuds/trespresh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Len is not a heavy sleeper, Barry’s come to learn, which is why Barry isn’t surprised to feel Len's cool fingers wrap around his waist while he reaches for a bottle of water in Len’s refrigerator at 3 in the morning.</p><p>“I like it when you don’t bother with clothes.”</p><p>(In which Barry wakes up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water, and Len follows.)<br/>(Alternatively, in which everything changes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Refrigerator Light

**Author's Note:**

> In the timeline of this series, I suppose this takes place after What a Mess (I'm Half-Doomed). Everything else happens before What a Mess.
> 
> I wrote this when I should've been studying for an exam tomorrow (but who tf cares about anthropology anyway?) No regrets. Characters belong to the DC Universe, title belongs to the #1 homegirl Taylor Swift (I'm switching it up).  
> 

Len is not a heavy sleeper, as Barry’s come to learn. He chalks it up to Len’s almost compulsive need to be alert, organized, well-planned (that, and his intense dislike of not being in control; he can’t be one step ahead of anything if he’s dead to the world).

Which is why Barry isn’t surprised to feel cool fingers wrap around his waist while he reaches for a bottle of water in Len’s refrigerator at 3 in the morning.

“I like it when you don’t bother with clothes.”

He had woken abruptly, his mouth dry and a restless buzz in his legs. He’d tried to be as quiet as possible to not wake Len when he pushed the blanket back and got up to trudge to the kitchen; he clearly hadn’t been quiet enough, as it seems.

“Why would I? ‘M coming back to bed,” he answers tiredly, and Len’s hand traces up his back, coming to rest on his shoulder.

Barry straightens up but doesn’t close the door to the fridge, enjoying the cold air coupled with the coolness of Len’s fingers. They grip at his shoulder for a moment, kneading, before trailing gently down each knob of his spine and stopping at the dimples in the small of his back. Barry shivers; Len’s touch is soft but determined, slow and lingering in that way it gets when Len’s got something specific in mind. He hums low and quiet in his throat, and Barry barely has time to turn around before Len’s fingers are at his hips, pushing him back against the counter and crowding forward to gets his lips on Barry’s.

Barry likes Len like this; his mouth is warm and a little desperate, his fingers heavy and possessive on Barry’s hips, but he’s moving slow, taking his time. His hands trail up Barry’s ribcage, thumbs kneading soft circles here and there like he’s simply enjoying the feel of Barry’s skin. One hand comes up to thread into the short hairs at the back of Barry’s neck and he holds him, tilts his head to the side just enough for Len to get better access to Barry’s mouth. Barry lets himself be held and relishes in the way Len shifts to get one leg between Barry’s and aligns their cocks and _grinds_ , god.

The kitchen is dark except for the warm glow of the refrigerator light from the still-open door, so when Len pulls back to look at Barry—his lips just barely swollen, eyes dark and studying Barry in that intensely fascinated and fondly expectant way of his—he’s illuminated in the soft light. Barry realizes, with a sharp pang in his heart and a swooping, fluttering feeling in his stomach, that Len is dangerous to him in more ways than just as Cold.

Something feels different tonight. Maybe it’s the darkness of the kitchen or the time of night, but the world feels confined to the few feet of space surrounding him and Len; he’s not the Flash and Len isn’t Cold—they’re just. Them.

He sucks his lower lip into his mouth and can still taste Len there, and he decides simply tasting Len isn’t enough; he needs to feel him. It’s the way Len’s looking at him—burning yet unhurried, and with the tiniest glint of affection in the way he’s watching Barry, his lips twitching into an almost-smirk like there’s something he wants to say but won’t (and Barry’s not sure how to handle a look so intense, so focused, like all Len sees is Barry)—that has him turning in Len’s hands, bending himself low until his back is horizontal and his forearms rest flat against the cold granite of the countertop. He looks over his shoulder, expecting to see Len smirking or chuckling or something equally infuriating, but Len’s brow is furrowed, his eyes following the line of Barry’s body and his jaw working like he feels the same intensity Barry does.

He breathes in hard through his nose. “What’d I do to deserve this,” he mutters in ill-disguised awe, more to himself than to Barry, and Barry gets the strange feeling that he’s not just talking about Barry’s wordless offer.

Len crowds forward until Barry’s fit snugly against the cradle of his hips. A hand splays over Barry’s back, the other reaching up to grip Barry’s shoulder and pull him back as Len grinds forward; he can feel the drag of Len’s cock against his ass, the press of his fingers on Barry’s skin, and it’s so good, so _good_ , the friction making them both groan. Barry drops his forehead to the counter, already breathing hard. Len rolls his hips forward again and Barry’s arms slide forward on the countertop with the push of it.

“Len—”

It comes out strangled and on the edge of desperation, more like a whimper than anything else but Barry doesn’t care. The hand on his back leaves and he hears Len spit into it— _god_ he’ll never get used to how ridiculously hot that is—and then Len’s pulling back just enough to slide a finger into Barry. His other hand is still cool and heavy on Barry’s shoulder, holding him still as Barry tries to push back against Len’s fingers. Another finger joins the first and Barry breathes hard, turning his head so his cheek rests against the cold countertop. His hands reach uselessly across the granite, buzzing with the need to hold on to _something_ because the stretch of Len’s fingers, the look in his eyes—it’s almost too much.

But then Len’s fingers are gone and Barry hears him spit into his hand again, and he wants to look over his shoulder but he knows if he watches Len slick himself up, he’ll lose it right there. Len leans in close again, guides himself into Barry so slowly, so carefully and torturously that Barry has to twist an arm around to grip at the curve of Len’s ass and hold him still when Len’s all the way in. He arches back, the hand on Len pulling him in like he can push Len deeper; he just wants to feel all of Len and then some, wants to feel him tomorrow when he tries to run through the city or sit down at S.T.A.R. Labs. Len pulls back nearly as slowly like he knows what Barry’s thinking, like he wants Barry to feel him just as much as Barry does, and then he pushes in hard.

The hand comes back up to Barry’s shoulder and holds him still while Len fucks into him just slow enough that Barry can feel the agonizing slide of it. Barry would think Len’s only taking his time to torture him but when he looks over his shoulder, Len’s jaw is dropped just a little and he looks as far gone as Barry feels. Len holds his gaze as he rolls his hips forward, and Barry’s eyes roll up into his head with a low groan when Len hits his prostate.

“There?” Len breathes, hitting it again, and Barry can’t even say anything coherent, just breathes shakily and tries not to come yet, tries to make this last as long as he can.

He attempts to reign in his shaking nerves, wants to ignore the way his skin burns under Len’s fingers but he can’t, he _can’t_ , because Len’s everywhere; he leans over Barry so his chest slides against Barry’s back and the angle changes, deepens, and the hand that’s not on his shoulder inches over his hip, down to curl around his cock, and Len’s gasping these warm little breaths into Barry’s back and his thumb is swiping over the head of Barry’s cock and Barry can’t hold it back anymore. He shakes so hard he vibrates as he comes over Len’s hand, and it’s the desperate, choked-off cursing of Len’s name on Barry’s lips that has Len falling over the edge, too.

Barry closes his eyes and presses his cheek to the cold countertop, lost in the feeling of Len breathing hard against his skin, still stretching Barry as he comes down from the orgasmic high. Len presses his lips to Barry’s shoulder blade in a lingering kiss before he gets a shaky hand around Barry’s hip and pulls out carefully. Barry groans at the loss, straightening and turning to rest his back against the counter, and then Len’s right there. He doesn’t say anything, just steps into Barry’s space so they’re chest-to-chest, and kisses him slowly—thorough and almost sweet in a way Barry’s not sure how to handle. He settles for curling a hand tentatively behind Len’s neck, and they kiss in this soft, new way; Barry tells himself that the fact that his head is spinning is just because he’s tired.

Len pulls away fractionally. “Come on,” he mumbles against Barry’s mouth, and turns to head for the bedroom. Barry swallows, ignoring the stupid flipping of his stomach, and follows.

They curl around one another in the bed—so uncharacteristic compared to all the previous nights that Barry’s stayed over—and it’s with Len’s fingers trailing over his skin and a voice in his head screaming, “ _You’re in way, way too deep,_ ” that Barry falls asleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> (Side note, I _finally_ started watching Prison Break - can we talk about WW circa 2005 holy CRAP. GIMME.)
> 
> ♥ ♥


End file.
